


The Need for Direction

by Iamari



Category: Captain America (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, BDSM, Bucky Barnes Feels, Childhood Memories, Consensual Kink, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, PTSD, Psychic Violence, Steve Feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-21 07:22:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1542398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iamari/pseuds/Iamari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky is so used to being given direction, he cannot function without it.  The first few chapters thus far are fairly innocuous and mostly angsty.  However, PLEASE be advised that the direction of this is quite dark and will slowly become more mature and darker in nature eventually leading into a heavy power exchange kink.   If you have concerns about that..please don't start the series.  You may find it triggering or uncomfortable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Puzzles

Bucky was torn so much of the time; his emotions going in eight million directions, his memories like the scattered bits of down and feathers from a bird shredded by a cat. “Hydra the cat,” he murmured aloud into the apartment that was surprisingly quiet, given the closeness of the city. Then he'd laugh, but there was little mirth in it. He could only do that when Steve wasn't home, though, because otherwise he'd get that look. That look that reminded him how broken he was, how many pieces remained to be found and picked up.

“Never liked puzzles,” he muttered, sitting on the floor because the couch was too soft and it felt oddly wrong. The cushions should be on the floor and the pattern of them was wrong, but he wasn't sure why he thought that. He stared at the walls, the dust motes floating on sunshine that streamed through the windows, while he tried over and over again to track down the bits that were hidden and lost, but then a pigeon landed outside the window or a siren went off and everything slid away like so much oil on water.

It was fall, he thought it was fall at least. Sometimes he was certain and other times he wasn't. Maybe it was spring? It wasn't summer and it wasn't that other season. It would never be that season again. Never. It felt too hot. He was always too hot, but insisted on long sleeves and long pants and usually a scarf to cover his face because of too many reasons. It was more comfortable that way, familiar. He didn't want Steve to look at his arm or see it or be reminded of what that arm meant and what it represented. He didn't want to see his arm or look at it and sometimes he didn't want to feel it and would flinch when it brushed against his side or the cold metal brushed his leg. It was safer because he wasn't exposed. Shirt off meant bad things. It was better to be too hot. Too cold meant bad things.

“Puzzles,” he murmured again, watching the shadows lengthen across the floor. Sometimes felt like he should do something, but what? He didn't know. Something...maybe? Was it time to sleep? Eat? Steve said there was food, but when he went to the fridge, he couldn't make up his mind. Too many options. But, because Steve wanted him to eat, he stood there dutifully looking into the ice box then finally grabbed something and ate it. A head of lettuce eaten like an apple or a peach. No bananas. They were wrong. And nothing that wasn't grab and eat, because he didn't know what to do with cans of stuff or little plastic tubs of stuff. Food was presented on a tray already made and sometimes it was warm. It didn't matter though. Food was energy and energy meant missions and missions meant food and sometimes a bed, not couch cushions on the floor. But sometimes he wanted couch cushions on the floor, why was that?

Some part of him remembered; he heard his father's voice in the background asking what was for dinner. Bucky closed the fridge and looked at the kitchen as a ghost of his mother appeared and walked toward several pots that were bubbling productively on the stove. His heart clenched as she turned, her expression weary but content, and called out, “James. Steven. Dinner, wash up.” Without thought he almost turned to wash his hands, then paused and blinked and it disappeared. Bucky stared at the stove, cold and silent in the apartment that always felt too warm because he was too accustomed to the chill. “Parents,” he whispered quietly and tried to put that into the holes in his memory. “I had parents. And Steve. I had Steve.” He took a breath and looked at the window, dust motes floating on the sunshine.

Footsteps in the hall meant tense muscles and moving into the shadows in one corner of the room. His gaze swept the room, eyes darting, moving continuously for any presence of danger.  
Watching. The sound of keys that he knew already which forced him to exhale, then tremble at the adrenaline surge. Keys meant Steve was back. Bucky's life revolved around that. Steve being home and Steve being gone. Steve at home was direction and order and calm and safe. Steve gone was shadows and memories and drifting and pervasive fear of cold and nothing.

Bucky slid from the corner and onto the couch; he sat perched on the edge, back straight and eyes on the floor. He waited. Steve would know what to do and he would tell Bucky and it would be okay again.


	2. A month ago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve heads off to some childhood haunts looking for Bucky

Steve pulled up into the ranger station, a light misting rain leaving him damp but undeterred. He shouldered the pack and his shield and headed up the path into the woods. The rain had driven most of the hikers away, and the woods around him were quiet except for the soft drip of water that gathered to slide down leaves and plunk against the detritus of the forest floor. The forest had changed in the intervening decades since his last trip here. 

An hour later, he snapped his compass closed and stepped off the marked trail, cutting straight through the forest, senses stretched to their capacity. Now with the trails behind him, he heard just the sounds of the forest, his mind wandering through memories as he made his way through the wet underbrush. Bucky’s face flickering in the light of the campfire as they threw twigs and dried pine needles into the flames. The smell of weiners roasting over the fire after being spit on whittled-down branches. 

They’d always meant to come back here. Do some camping, maybe fish in the river. After the war. There was a lot of things they’d meant to do after the war. It had never occurred to either of them that that time wouldn’t come. Or maybe it had, but they’d both refused to think about it. And they’d certainly never considered only one of them making it back. 

How had he survived? Steve had ideas, but even the file from Natasha hadn’t explained everything. How had he survived that fall? The guilt over not going back, not searching enough, was a constant simmer in the back of his mind and despite Sam telling him it wasn’t his fault, Steve couldn’t stop feeling like it was. He’d left Bucky behind and his best friend, his protector, had suffered for it. The details in the file had left Steve struggling as bile rose in his throat more than once, but he’d read it. All of it. Every word. They were emblazoned on his memory, keeping him up nights as they marched stolidly across his mind in perfect order. 

There was a part of Steve that was terrified of finding Bucky, because what if he remembered? How was he going to live with himself if he remembered? Natasha’s secrets were out there, Steve knew that, he’d read them all. It didn’t change anything. She’d done some horrible things, but so had he. God knew he wasn’t the saint people wanted to make him into. He tried to do the right thing, but sometimes it was hard to tell what was right. So had Bucky, but then. How was his pal going to learn to live with that in his head? Steve’s chest felt tight and he pushed that line of thought aside. He’d deal with it later. When he had Bucky back, they’d figure it out together. That’s what they did. 

Pausing, Steve pulled his pack off and grabbed a couple of protein bars out. He ate them as he walked, shoving the wrappers back into one of the many pockets on his fatigues. “Where are you?” he murmured to himself. This was only the latest place he’d thought to check. Bucky could be anywhere in the world, and Steve was going to check every possibility until he found him. Whatever it took, he was going to do. He owed Bucky that much. Hell, he owed Bucky everything.


	3. Flashback to 1932

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to when Steve and Bucky were kids.

“Steve, c'moooooooon,” Bucky chirped, tugging his best friends arm toward the car. “Uncle Ben says it's time to go.”

Steve finished tying his shoe, again-- why couldn't they make laces that would stay tied?-- and pushed his too floppy bangs out of his eyes again. “Stop pulling me, jerk. I'm coming.”

Bucky snorted, “You're the jerk. I'm the punk, jerk.” Laughing he ran down the stairs and burst out the front door. He wasn't going as fast as he could-- which, by the way, was much much faster-- because then Steve would try and keep up like he always did and if Steve's breathing messed up they might not let him come. It had been hard enough to convince Steve's father to let him go along on their camping adventure.

Steve trailed along after him, expression excited. He was going to be so good and so well behaved. Mom had made him promise and Steve always tried to keep his promises. “Punk!” he teased, making sure not to get winded or trip over his own feet again.

At the car, Mrs. Buchanan was talking to Captain Buchanan. “You've got Steven's medicine?” He nodded and kissed her cheek, telling her not to worry. Uncle Ben was throwing the last of the stuff into the trunk and gave Steve and Bucky a wink as he closed it up.

Mrs. Buchanan smiled and ruffled both the boys’ hair. “Now, don't go getting into any trouble,” she advised.

“Mooooom,” Bucky whined as he smoothed his hair back down, or tried to since it really had a mind of its own and tended to shoot off in all different directions. “Don't muss me.” He got into the back of the car and Steve followed him.

“I'll watch him, Mrs. Buchanan,” he promised.

“I know you will, Steven,” she answered, “you do a fine job of that.”

Steve closed the door and Bucky punched him softly in the shoulder. “Suck up,” he whispered.

“Jerk,” he whispered back as the two adults got into the car.

The car trip upstate took hours, and Steve and Bucky spent it bouncing back and forth from one side of the car to the other, looking out the windows and complaining about who had the better view. The farms full of cows, along with the accompanying odor, was good for at least twenty minutes of cow pie jokes, mostly told by Uncle Ben since the two city boys hadn't had much experience with cows.

Both boys helped set up their camp along a river, then wandered off together to get wood for the camp fire, a newly sharpened little hatchet at hand. Bucky's hand for the moment, but they took turns carrying it because that was fair. “It's quiet,” Bucky finally stated as they wandered a bit, Steve, looking around and making sure he could get them back to the camp.

“'Cause it's the woods,” he stated obviously. “Guess they don't need as many horns and stuff out here.” He picked up a rock and threw it at a tree, the sound of it hitting the solid wood somehow satisfying.

“I know that,” Bucky snorted, peeling a twig off a branch and chucking it at Steve.

“Hey! Not supposed to throw stuff at each other,” his voice indignant.

“Well maybe I felt like it,” Bucky retorted, but he nudged his shoulder against Steve's in apology.

“Punk,” Steve muttered, but instantly forgave him because it was Bucky, which pretty much explained everything. Steve didn’t' have a lot of friends; okay, he had one friend, but Bucky made up for that by being better than a hundred normal friends. Although sometimes Steve still wondered why Bucky wanted to be his friend. He'd never really asked, because it seemed a little rude and because he was sort of afraid of what the answer would be or that Bucky would be mad at him for asking. Sometimes Bucky got mad about odd things. Not that Steve really cared since Bucky never got mad at him.


End file.
